


Song of the Seasons

by Hekwos



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-07-25 23:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20034274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekwos/pseuds/Hekwos
Summary: “Will you give my love to Spring when you see him?”“Who?”“Spring . . . tall, elegant, black hair, gray eyes, bit stuffy at first? Don't you wake him?”“What are you talking about, Summer? I wake Winter.”Winter. He had heard that word. Humans uttered it with caution, 'A good crop this year, we should be fine for the winter.' Humans uttered it with dread, 'The elders say it will be a harsh winter. We'll never make it with so little grain.' Humans uttered it with fear, 'Last winter we lost almost the whole herd to frost and starving wolves. They'll come to hunt us this winter, mark my words, it's the season of death.'





	1. Prologue - The Four Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> Spring: Kuchiki Byakuya  
Summer: Kurosaki Ichigo  
Autumn: Senna  
Winter: Hitsugaya Toshiro

Summer admired Spring. It was a deep and tender admiration, leading to affection born of respect and time. One might expect Spring to be frivolous, lighthearted, even promiscuous. It was his season, after all, that triggered new life and love, mating and awakening of the passions. Summer remembered, sometime far in the past, expecting that and being surprised and irritated when he found Spring to be serious, reserved, stoic . . . frigid.

In the beginning, Spring would wake him with the traditional kiss, brief, gone before Summer could blink. Then the cloud-gray eyes that promised life-giving rain would disappear with a downward sweep of black lashes onto skin pale but just beginning to flush pink with the warmth of the longer days and brighter suns. In the beginning, the measured voice would greet him politely, speaking in short phrases and they avoided each other once Summer was up and active.

He could not help but admire the dawn of his season, the eclipsing of Spring's season, the world gaining color just like the creamy cheek of Spring framed with black silk hair. He would breathe deep the perfume of damp fecundity, listen to life singing its songs of fighting and sex, take in the brilliant colors that were the beautiful foundation of his palette to paint the world in deeper hues, and he would voice his awe of Spring.

And the noble spirit would blush like the new roses that would bloom during their brief time together as Summer expressed his reverence by painting deeper hues across the heating skin, cracking the aloof exterior as the Robin's eggs cracked to release new life. For this was who they were, Spring meeting Summer, entwining in sweetness that bloomed into lust.

Time did not affect Summer, or the other two seasons, even though part of their purpose was to change the world at the same times year after year. But what were years to spirits that lived eternally, graced to exist outside of the time while intimately linked to the world and its turning? Summer did not know or care or even think of how long it had been. He only knew that Spring had always been Spring, elegant formality encasing every sweet and sultry element of his season just beneath the beautiful exterior.

Spring always left him with a sigh and a rare smile. He would stay, weaving rosebuds into black silk hair long after the silvery eyes closed for another year, lingering until the lure of the world tugged at him to go. Reminders of the gentle, serious, passionate spirit lingered through most of his season, and in every new bloom, every new curl of new leaf, he saw that gentle, mysterious smile that he would be certain to earn again to usher in his next season.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Autumn adored Summer. She always had; from the first time she had looked into soulful eyes the color of rich, fertile soil. Awakening with hot lips on hers was the epitome of delight, beginning her season with laughter and joy, and every time she would instantly tangle her fingers into Summer's outrageous orange hair and pull his bronzed body close, stealing his heat to wake her body and her senses.

They were inseparable in their days together, and she took all that she could of his life, his passion, his energy. And he gave, generously and gladly. They raced through the forests, leaves losing their fat, dark green, beginning to take on the colors of her amber eyes, her aubergine hair, her red ribbons. Too soon, always too soon Summer would slow, walking instead of running in her wake as the leaves began to fall and swirl around her. And still he gave.

In the beginning, their time had been even shorter. She would awake to Summer already exhausted, his long season required so much. His was a time of growing and nourishing, of life and of death, the explosion of new life needing to fight and conquer in a world-wide clash for supremacy. Every infant existence needed space, food, energy, and Summer gave and gave, his generous spirit weary and needing the rest Autumn promised.

She took the large, labor-worn hand of Summer and kissed the barely warm palm. Hers was a season of work, as well, life collecting the bounty Summer had prepared. She preferred to let the living tend to the labor without her symbolic participation, focusing her attention on the rich flurry of activity, the bright variety of changing colors painting the laughing trees.

He smiled tiredly up at her, lifting that hand to caress her cheek one last time as his eyes slid closed. She did not feel sad, accepting the order of things, though she already looked forward to their reunion. Her season was not a long one, a whirling spin of hours as she danced through the world, finding and taking and cherishing the last of Summer's energy where she could find it, just as most living things sought and stole and kept every bit of food, fuel, warmth, and Summer's love to prepare for the longer nights to come.

Then, when the colors no longer came easily and the world began to darken, she would greet Winter and they would share the lengthening nights, much more sedately and thoughtfully than she shared with dazzling Summer. Then Autumn, too, would yield her place and sleep. Memories of Summer's light and heat, memories of Winter's deep tranquility, slipping into the long dream before fiery hair and fiery lips came to brighten her world again.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Winter found Autumn exasperating. Long before he opened his eyes, he could hear her, feel her, an almost frantic presence that soured the dark peace of his long slumber. Then that peace would shatter under the weight of her body leaning over his, pressing her lips to his and laughing as he pushed her away. And she would twirl and sing out her welcome, chatting excitedly about the things she had seen in the world during her season.

Autumn's seemingly boundless energy would try to sweep him away, and Winter grudgingly let her drag him out into the world, let her awaken his interest in a myriad small things from the last of the spectacle of rich colors to the brief glimpses of the animals that would hide through his season, sleeping with the other seasonal spirits while he put the word down to rest under black skies and white drifts.

In the beginning, Autumn had not been so brave. She had not pulled at his hand, weaving their fingers together; she had not sought the touch of his cold skin, yanking back as if burned when skin accidentally met. Autumn had been afraid of him. Most were, even those strong enough to stay awake with him through the long dark shied away, saw him as a challenge and a threat. In the beginning, Winter would wake quietly and spend the transition in contemplation and preparation, staring silently at the stars or walking slowly through the slowing, shortening days while she trailed like his shadow.

He could not say when she began to follow him, watching him solemnly tend to the wilting plants, watching him find the first few frozen birds with their fragile, colorful wings all stiff and lifeless, vibrant voices forever silent. He could not say when they started to speak, or when she first playfully sent whirlwinds of leaves to tease, then slowly, reverently combed all the bits of dirt and debris out of his white hair while his icy eyes studied her smile that never seemed to fade like her colors inevitably did.

As her season faltered and Winter once more reigned over the frosted Heavens, he found her company more pleasant, more subdued, and her kisses slower, deeper, full of warm spice. She grew chilled being close to him, but she relished his change in attitude as he turned toward her more often, more freely. And he hid the sadness that always came when they were finally together only to be parted. That was why he resisted her so long, knowing she, as all the world, could not long tolerate his affection.

He was not Death, and she would only sleep. But lying by her side, feeling her fingers stroking his cold skin slowly and more slowly still while lids grew heavy and he tried desperately to memorize the curve of her smile, he sometimes felt like he was the loneliest and most justifiably feared creature in existence.

Winter would never admit that he sorely missed the scent of her dark hair, the same as the scent of her dark woods still harboring life as it grew drier and heavier, before he killed the last of the world's warmth.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Spring found the presence of Winter relaxing, tranquil. The small and beautiful spirit was dignified, peaceful, centered. Respecting tradition, the chilly lips were not unpleasant against his, and they always parted to offer formal greetings after a brief, courteous kiss. Then Spring would rise, and let the refreshing frost fill his lungs, the clean white diamond coating the world delighting his eyes.

In the beginning, even Spring thought Winter was dark and distant and cold, as close to dead as a spirit could be. Yet the two of them had always gotten along. Spring would sit close by, and they would contemplate the world, the most drastic of all the seasonal changes taking a languid hold on the earth and spreading a hint of joy under the ice, life sighing with relief. At some point, he began to see the exact same changes in his companion, the pale, white-clad, white-haired, scowling spirit gradually letting tension ease and gaining a spark in the turquoise depths.

As the world thawed, slowly the icy spirit did the same. The frowns were less severe, the aura of dark loneliness easing, lightening with every exchange of pleasant observations, until Winter opened like the first crocus breaking through the frozen earth. Side by side, his arm wrapped warmly around the narrow shoulders, Spring felt his season take hold of the icy heart, bewitched by the way the snowy spirit melted under his kisses.

Theirs was an easy transition, until the end. The normally dutiful and somber Winter would hesitate, pushing to stay awake. While Spring found it flattering, endearing that the austere spirit would huddle closer to him, chilly fists bunched in his hair, lithe bodies wound together as if they could merge into one, it also saddened him that he could not provide more comfort just when the frosty beauty finally yielded to the need for companionship.

Eventually, inevitably, Winter would resign himself to rest, Spring's power overtaking the world, and he would kiss the reluctant lids closed, treasuring the last glimpse of Winter's eyes that no longer reminded him of ice, but of the crystal-clear skies of frosty mornings that would linger as the world woke to his season.


	2. Changing of the Seasons - Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spring: Kuchiki Byakuya  
Summer: Kurosaki Ichigo  
Autumn: Senna  
Winter: HItsugaya Toshiro

“There's another one an hour’s walk west. Want to go visit?”

The afternoon heat was helping, but he could feel the fatigue starting to weigh down his steps. Another hour would not be too bad. But then he would be too tired to be good company, and they only had another day together, two at most.

“Nah, I need to head back. You can go. I'm sure you'll catch up with me before I get back home.”

She whirled. She always whirled, twirled, faster and faster as she spun away from him with the cooling of his season. Weightless and carefree, she skipped across the carefully tended and polished stone to reach up, hand wrapping around the back of his neck to pull him down. He still had enough energy to pull her up instead, smiling as he whirled with her, her head falling back and laughter filling the small shrine before he stopped in front of the candlelit altar and kissed her again.

“Put me down, Summer,” she teased against his lips, fingers petting his cheek belying the sternness of the command. “Save your strength so I can cuddle with you tonight.”

Probably their last night, more of his energy slipping away, brown eyes darkening as honey eyes brightened. Wisely, he put her down as commanded, watched her leave her blessings, added his own. The small village would prosper this season.

“There are so many of them now.”

She nodded enthusiastically. Autumn was fascinated with the humans, and their time together was often spent at these shrines to the seasons. She would ask for everything he had learned, ask how the humans behaved during their season of heat and growth, always eager to know though he knew she would forget. The next year when they walked together, he would answer the same questions, watching as a vague look of familiarity came and went before she exclaimed with wonder at his stories.

Often, he wondered if that was how he was supposed to react, if he was intended to forget and approach each season as new. It would make things easier, he thought, if he could not remember and therefor could not mourn for what was lost.

He hid his own misgivings from her. Villages like this one were becoming more common, and they grew, consuming and carving into the earth. They changed so quickly, and Summer had seen the villages grow too large. Summer watched over the struggle for resources, the circle of energy exchanged between all the life Spring brought forth and handed over to him to balance and sustain. Summer watched the humans find ways to consume more and more, leaving less and less for the other life they shared the earth with, and he wondered if perhaps he should do something about the imbalance. He'd never had to interfere before and was not certain it was his role to decide such things.

Heavy thoughts were not familiar to him. He was the spirit of Summer, not a god, not a force for good or evil, not a judge or savior. Only a season. He slowed his steps, Autumn sensing the change in him and curbing her exuberance as much as she could, walking arm in arm with him between bursts of energy that sent her leaping through trees and over rocks until once more he laughed at her antics, letting her settle his fears.

The home of the seasons was humble, humbler than some of the larger human shrines. They were ancient and timeless spirits, and needed very little to be comfortable. It could not be called a palace, though it was large and beautiful, Nature lending her grace with the finest rainbows of stone, clearest ribbons of fine waterfalls. It was more like a cave, a vast cavern with open rifts letting in light and long vines draping down into a roughly rounded open space with their smaller alcoves around the sides, little sanctuaries where they took their turns sleeping until needed again.

“Ah, Summer, dance with me!”

And he did, twirling as swiftly as he was able, and sending her spinning when he could not keep up as he could only days ago when she woke to Summer's kiss, taking his willing gifts of time and power. She was divine, the lightness of her laughter, the twinkling of her eyes, and he was glad to think she would carry his energy into the future.

The future was not something he had ever thought much about, living for the present as seasons should. It was the humans that had changed this. True, all life planned for the future. It was part of his purpose, after all, to provide the world with all it needed for life to thrive and multiply, take Spring's gift of new life and hope, bring it to the greatest fruition he could, and give to Autumn all his bounty. It was the humans who spoke aloud of things he had never thought about. And though he loved her dearly, it was Spring his thoughts turned to in his moment of doubt, Spring who would have words of calm wisdom as he soaked in the sweet spirit's tranquility.

“Will you give my love to Spring when you see him?”

They were tangled together on the cool grasses of his resting place, under the sheet woven of cloud and starlight, scented with sex and the growing spices of Autumn's season. She pushed on his chest with one hand, dark hair falling loose around her happy heart-shaped face as huge amber eyes stared.

“Who?”

With such a simple question, the world can change.

“Spring . . . tall, elegant, black hair, gray eyes, bit stuffy at first? Don't you wake him?”

“What are you talking about, Summer? I wake Winter.”

_Winter_. He had heard that word. Humans uttered it with_ caution_, 'A good crop this year, we should be fine for the winter.' Humans uttered it with _dread_, 'The elders say it will be a harsh winter. We'll never make it with so little grain.' Humans uttered it with _fear_, 'Last winter we lost almost the whole herd to frost and starving wolves. They'll come to hunt us this winter, mark my words, it's the season of death.'

“Winter?”

“Um-hm. He's much less fun than you. But he's wise, and he's clever, and he has a strong heart.”

“Hmm.”

Too tired to think more of it, he felt the closing of his season. They would not have another day; he would sleep before morning and not wake. She felt it, too, wrapping herself tighter around him. Greedy, as always, she pet his chest and kissed his jaw, tempting him to stay awake, to join their bodies again. He gave in, as always, and gave her the last of his energy in a final embrace. Exhausted, he laid back, content to fall asleep with her cinnamon lips humming a lullaby against his ear.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Leaping down from the branches caused a storm of pink petals to fall and spin about him, reminding him of Autumn and her tornadoes of leaves. The fond memory was quickly lost, surrounded as he was by the bright colors and sugared scents that called the senses to the needs of life. Spring's season, and silk-clad, lovely, lithe, strong Spring within reach.

Summer stepped close, his hands dark against the pale green silk, trailing from straight shoulders up to gently encase the long neck with his long fingers. Though he disrupted Spring's quiet work, the softer silk of black hair leaned back against his chest, one elegant hand lifting to rest against his cheek as he tilted forward, the other hand pausing, brush delicately poised.

“What's troubling you, Summer?”

“Hmm? Nothing at all. It's beautiful. You always capture the color so perfectly, I can almost smell the blossoms.”

“Well, I should certainly hope so.”

He glanced up at the thick rows of sakura, chuckling lightly at the dry, unsmiling humor of Spring. Sometimes, he would paint, too, set up an easel beside the beautiful spirit and try to capture the essence of the fleeting season that gave birth to his. Something was always missing. Perhaps one could only truly understand one's own season. He had resolved to try when the forests were dark under thick canopies, the rivers slowing as the grasses dried under the high, intense sun, but in the end, he was always too busy with other things to think of sitting still with paint.

“It is for you.”

Of course, it was. His alcove was cluttered with reminders of Spring and Autumn, including many paintings such as this. Summer's favorites were the small ovals, no bigger than his thumbnail, with precise paintings of the tiny flowers that crept up in dark pockets of soil trapped in rocks or in the high crooks of trees, each alive and vital. He pressed his lips to the top of Spring's head, inhaling the scent much richer than the blossoms surrounding them.

Spring rarely wanted to visit villages and shrines like Autumn did, saying that he performed that duty when he was alone, not wanting to waste the precious days they had together. So affectionate beneath the somber exterior. So passionate when that fine silk fell onto the bed of fragrant soil and pink petals. So soft, the deep voice breaking in moans and sighs.

The view of the blossoms was even better as he sprawled on the cool earth with warm Spring clasped close, smooth cheek on his shoulder, pink paint-stained fingers tracing patterns on his chest.

“Do you know Autumn?”

“Autumn? I know of Autumn. The season between you and Winter.”

Brown eyes blinked in surprise, chin tilting down but only able to see the cascade of straight black hair trickling and tickling across his skin.

“How do you know this? How did I not know this?”

A quiet chuckle vibrated against his shoulder.

“You, my dear Summer, are too focused on the task at hand to observe the signs all around you. And too busy to read. Humans have written much on the subject of seasons.”

“So, it's me, then Autumn, then Winter, then you? How did I _not know this?_”

“Is this what has been weighing on you?”

Spring had lifted his head, propping on an elbow, stormy gray eyes studying him.

“I guess so. I'd always thought it was we three. But there's another, one I do not know. It's . . . strange.”

“It is not. I will never meet Autumn. It does not trouble me. Though I am curious. What is he like?”

“She,” he smiled, “is a dainty, colorful sprite. Small and swift, always laughing and dancing as if there are no cares in the world. And Winter, what is he . . . she like?”

The silken cheek settled against him again with a contemplative hum.

“The opposite, I think. He is small, too, but seems to take all the cares of the world on his shoulders. He is cold, so very cold, unlike you. Yet underneath that frost, he has a heart warm as the sun, like you.”

An open palm rubbed more firmly on his chest, head tilting to lay cool lips against him, lips that warmed quickly against his heat. Spring was the season of love and lovemaking, and its spirit embodied its ideals.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Autumn stood and stretched, arms lifting to gather her hair into a spiky crown bound by red ribbon. Slender, all muscle, her usually hidden feminine curves were revealed as she twisted and sighed happily, waking fully two hours or so after pulling him down into the dusky nest of fluffy blankets that was her resting place, all tan and rust, looking like nothing so much as a pile of faded leaves.

“This one's new. You really like those trees. That's a color I don't have. They're pretty.”

“They are. And they smell wonderful. Almost as wonderful as you. I didn't paint them, though. Spring did. Just like all the ones I keep.” Though she would forget his promise, just as she forgot that he had brought blossoms before, but he promised anyway just to see her smile, “I'll bring you some blossoms next year.”

He had brought the newest of Spring's paintings to show her. There were at least a hundred paintings in his resting place, including the little ones that he loved so much. Not so many, considering they had known one another for eternity, however long that was. Her sanctuary was covered with leaves, preserved by her magic, almost every color imaginable from some bright and tender leaves he had brought her from Spring, to his season's rich green, to dry and desiccated brown all arranged in mosaics that changed from time to time or hanging from silken spiderweb above.

He stood and stretched, too, still full of energy this early in their time together, and she was still calm. Calm for Autumn, anyway.

“That's right. You've told me that before I think. Spring, huh? Well, how was your season? Oh, did they finish that new temple, you know, the one they've been building into the mountain for ages and ages?”

“Yes, they finished it. And no, you're not dragging me all the way down there this year.”

“Awww! You're so boring!”

There it was again, how she seemed to forget, to ask the same questions again after a few years, how she did not seem vested in the answers. Was Autumn the odd one, or was he? Spring at least knew of Autumn's existence, though the two would never meet, but also didn't seem more than mildly curious. What had changed, he wondered, to make him aware of something that was not now?

“Autumn, you are in charge of waking Winter.”

“Huh?” She turned, pulling on a kimono of burgundy and gold. “Yeah, why?”

“Show him to me.”

“What?”

“Well, after Spring goes to sleep, his alcove fades. But I can see the doors to him and you, always. Is it the same? Do you know where to find Winter?”

“I mean, why? Why would you want to see him?”

“Curiosity. There are only four of us. Sure, I watch the woodland spirits and the animals, watch the humans, but it isn't the same. Even if I let them see me, they are gone so quickly. Only four of us, and I never knew about the fourth.”

Summer could tell she had no idea what he meant, just as she never once asked about Spring even when Summer talked about him, and then seemed to let any interest she had in the moment fade and vanish.

“Tell you what. Show him to me, and we'll go to that new shrine.”

She bounced and then jumped at him. He caught her, spinning her around like he knew she wanted, and kissed her like he knew she wanted, deep and tender and long. It was another hour or so tumbled in that soft pile of blankets before she dressed again and skipped out into the cavern.

“You can't see it?”

His eyes followed her pointing finger to a dark section of blank stone wall. But autumn's alcove was behind him. His own was over his right shoulder. Spring's was ahead and to the right. It only made sense, now that he thought about it, that there would be a fourth. Yet all he saw was the artistic stone.

Ah, the patterns in the stone. He had noticed them before, of course, as old as creation. Around Autumn's doorway, twisting whirls of whiter stone with flecks of copper and gold, reminiscent of a vortex of wind and leaves. Around his own, veins of gold snaked up from the floor, stalks of grain waving in the wind under the pattern of brown and green evoking thick trees arching over the doorway. Spring, flecks of lapis like vital rains under silver curves of stone clouds, bright gems stretching up from the ground and around the faded frame of the entrance like flowers, and the pink sandstone petals scattered among them.

“I can't see the door, but I can see where it should be.”

How odd that he had never really paid attention to this pattern. Perhaps it was something one could not see if not meant to be aware, and Winter was not his companion. What was it? Black above, with raw diamonds, topaz, and sapphires glinting stars the night sky. What was it, the flecks of quartz everywhere as if dumped out of that sky down to the contrasting layer of bright white near the floor in gentle waves, glittering with tiny crystals? He had never noticed it before, just another pretty mural that wasn't really there until you looked. Now that he could see it, the vision was bold and captivating.

“Come on!”

He could see the door now, the hazy opening in the stone growing dark under her palm. When was the last time he was so excited? Another such as he, so close by, and he had never known. Autumn had vanished within, and he lurched ungracefully forward, into the doorway and into a surprisingly dark room. Well, the spirit was supposed to sleep until Autumn's time was over. And here he was, invading another's sanctuary.

Any guilty thoughts vanished as his eyes widened. The bed was dark, piled with black and gray furs, the small spirit curled on his side nearly invisible in the fluff. White hair, white skin, white-covered shoulder, Winter rested so peacefully, the face pretty and pale, quiet breaths sighing between barely parted pink lips, and he longed to reach out and touch.

“He's handsome, isn't he? Not as handsome as you.”

That wasn't right. Summer didn't think he'd seen anything as beautiful. Though Autumn was beautiful in a way that made your heart sing, like witnessing a glorious sunset. And Spring, well, Spring was a walking work of art, the indelible awe of soft dawn etched into the heart of every living thing. But this spirit was lovely like a song, achingly tender strains of music that haunted the soul when alone in the quiet dark. Each of them, so unique, how could one compare them?

He shivered. So cold. Spring had explained it, the chill that was in the air when he first woke, the chill that returned as he fell asleep, it was part of the cycle. That briskness at the beginning and end of his season was nothing at all compared to this, a bone-deep ache and a sting in his lungs that sent puffs of cloud into the frigid air. And this slumbering spirit reigned over the season of deep cold such as Summer had never known, would never know.

“I don't think that's a good idea, Summer.”

Uncharacteristically serious, her voice drew his attention. He had leaned down, studying the white brows, the thick lashes like black fern against white curve of wide cheek, wondering what the hidden eyes might look like. His hand was so close, he could feel the impossible chill radiating off the pearl skin.

She was right; instinct was loudly calling, telling him not to touch. His fingers gripped the gray fur, pulling it up and dropping it to cover the small shoulder, sighing as he straightened. The walls were black, again with flecks of white and a pile of crystal near the floor. Only two adornments broke the severity of the room, a large branch covered with red and bronze maple leaves stretching across one wall, a branch covered with pale pink puffs of sakura blossoms stretched across the opposite darkness.

Ah, Winter had a tender heart.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Winter yawned, politely raising his hand to cover his lips though Spring was paying no attention, silvery eyes gazing up at the sky. He, too, enjoyed watching snowflakes drift down. This would be the last snow of his season, gentle and quiet. It was a parting gift for his companion; he knew Spring loved witnessing a world sparkling and white, just as he did, and it would melt quickly in the warming day once he was asleep.

“Summer was asking about you.”

“Summer? That's odd.”

His tired mumble earned a twisting of Spring's body, and he let himself be gathered up, tucked in the beautiful spirit's lap with long arms wrapping a fur-lined silk cloak around him. Only on the final day or two would he allow such a thing. He knew it was silly, but every year it took him time to accept that he was not alone anymore, not so very cold anymore.

“Mm. I thought so, as well. The cycle never allows me to meet Autumn, and that has always been, always will be. Why would I seek information on Autumn?”

“Curiosity?”

“And are you curious about Summer?”

“Well . . . I never have been.” He burrowed closer, surrendering to the warmth, letting himself go. “But I suppose I am now. Why would Summer want to know about me?”

“Why wouldn't he, my enchanting Winter? I feel rather sorry for Summer, never being able to know you, never seeing your lovely eyes shine brighter than your clean snow, never knowing the warmth of holding you through the chilly nights.”

Eyes narrowed in a glare, but he looked up to find no mockery, nothing but gentle admiration, and he let those silky lips press to his as an apology for the accusation.

“Such a silver tongue. Summer misses nothing. He has you and Autumn, as I do, so he could ask for no more.” A disturbing thought invaded, and he spoke sharply, “He is not unkind to you?”

A quiet laugh, and Spring kissed him again, erasing his scowl.

“No, protective one, Summer is . . . rather loud. But he is unfailingly kind.”

“Rather loud. Autumn is, as well, exhaustingly so. Their time together must be complete chaos.” Spring hummed and he tucked himself close again, weary and content and starting to be unsettled by the conversation. “We have never talked of the others like this.”

“No. I don't believe we have. That must be why it stuck with me so, when Summer asked what you were like. I think he never realized that there was another season.”

“Truly? That seems impossible, for a seasonal spirit to not know the seasons. Even Autumn is aware, though she does not think on it. Is he a fool, then?”

“Not at all. A spirit of action, not of learning, our Summer.”

“What else? What does he look like?”

“Oh, he is tall, and strong. His hair is the color of fire, and he burns nearly as hot as flame. But his eyes are kind, and gentle, dark earth in color, and sometimes . . . they can see into your soul.”

He blinked, wondering if perhaps his tired mind was imagining strange things. He didn't dream. Spring didn't dream. Autumn swore she did but what she described only sounded like her usual odd ramblings. Yet this year when Autumn's laughing lips woke him, he thought for a moment he saw the sun, bright and close and smiling. And he felt warm, warmer than he ever had. He never felt warm on waking, only now the cold was pushed back, nestled in Spring's embrace.


	3. Changing of the Seasons - Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spring: Kuchiki Byakuya  
Summer: Kurosaki Ichigo / Abarai Renji  
Autumn: Senna  
Winter: Hitsugaya Toshiro / Kuchiki Rukia

It happened again upon waking, that memory of a dream or delusion. Perhaps something was wrong with his eyes, he thought, blinking away the brightness, letting orange fade, darken into amber eyes and golden skin. Autumn's permanent smile widened when he did not push her away as he usually did, staring in an unusual haze, feeling so warm and comfortable that he did not want to lift his arm to push away her or the thick furs she suddenly crawled under.

This was new, and he frowned. He was not awake yet. They never made love so soon, when he was still waking, and never in Winter's bed. On it, sometimes, yes, but now another body was in his bed, and it was disconcerting. She was being quiet, for Autumn in the early days, that is, biting her grinning lip and tense with excitement while she scooted closer, reaching carefully for him like he was a wild animal likely to shy away. And he was, muscles tense and wary.

Winter reminded himself of his musings with Spring and the deep appreciation he felt for the brief respite from being alone. He had only these numbered, precious days with her and then he would be alone again, alone for so many nights before he had his limited time with Spring. So, though he did not yet feel awake or alive, he forced himself to turn his head toward her, forced himself to allow her hand to creep forward onto his oddly warm skin.

“Welcome, Winter!” She could not voice the rest of the formal greeting, too eager to take advantage of his indulgence with a hungry kiss.

It was nice, once his aggravation had given way to the pleasure of her company. It was nice to hold her under the furs, to feel as warm with her as he did at the end of his time with Spring. He concluded that he should not wait, ever again, should not allow his reticence to ruin their first days together anymore. It was that delay that had him grow colder, waiting for her exuberance to lessen to tolerable levels. And that delay had cost him this, sharing warmth before it was gone. It might also serve to tire her right away, just a little.

Not long after he turned onto his back with Autumn tucked close to his side, hot and panting and strangely serene, his senses began to notice things other than her. One thing, specifically. She hummed an energetic tune but stayed fairly still in his arms while his head turned slowly side to side. To his right, beyond Autumn herself, was the wondrous branch, as big around as his wrist with smaller limbs stretching out to cover the wall with broad leaves of Autumn’s gold, rust, and mostly brilliant reds. To his left, the thinner, spidery wood thick with clusters of red-speckled pink, Spring's favorite blossoms.

These two reminders were the first things he saw upon waking, the last things his tired eyes lingered on before sleep, the scents of honey and spice heady and full of warmth, forever preserved by the spirits of each season. He would visit them, too, when the nights were long and dark, the world hiding from his eyes and piercing his heart with loneliness. These comforted his solitude.

Now, the wall behind him which was always night-black with glittering snowflakes sported a new adornment, and his head tilted back to gaze in wonder. The bark was mottled gray, almost white in places, a strong branch with a curve that arched over his head. The leaves were a color he rarely saw, a blend of the dark evergreens that stood out in his season, and the bright new life hinted at in his time with Spring. There were so many, fat with water and life, giving off an unfamiliar scent, subtle and rich.

“What is that?”

“Hmm? Oh! I forgot.” He would have rolled his eyes at her if not for their preoccupation studying the unexpected addition to his sanctuary. “Summer insisted on putting that there.”

“Summer . . . was here?”

While he slept? Defenseless? He paused at that unfamiliar thought. Nothing had ever threatened or harmed him, a seasonal spirit, and certainly he had nothing to fear from one of his own kind, one of the very few of his own kind. Strange that he would even worry.

“He's so weird sometimes. He couldn't stop smiling. But then we went to the water temple. Have you been there yet? It's small, but very pretty, and the women who tend it leave these cakes with almonds . . .”

Autumn's voice continued, Winter letting her words tumble around him like the last leaves of her season, and he reached hesitantly upward. Expecting his touch to kill the deep green still alive and vital, expecting frost to spread and darken and deaden, he gasped softly at the warmth that met his tentative fingertips, seeping down his hand, his arm, into his chest with the slowly building fire of the midday sun.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

When the nights were longest and darkest, when the world was hushed under a thick blanket of snow, that's when Winter's thoughts always turned to his brief companions. That's when his feet carried him to the few shrines that made offerings that were not pleas for mercy, but gestures of respect. That's when he wondered what it would be like to have the night flit by in a relief of cool winds before the harsh sun returned to burn the skies.

Did Summer grow weary of the hot days as Winter did of the icy nights? Did Summer watch life hide from the heat at the peak of his season as Winter watched life huddle against the cold and feel a stab of remorse and guilt?

The shrine above the peaceful village was one to all seasons, a coincidentally accurate stone rotunda with four small alcoves. Three were dark, but with simple offerings and signs of recent polishing. Traditionalists, then, to place offerings year-round. His eyes lingered on the altar opposite his. Cotton dyed like fire hung to frame the alcove in yellow and orange, dried stalks of wheat laid out in a sunburst, and it occurred to Winter that his counterpart had never seen snow just as he had never seen the trees hang heavy with wet fruit.

His small altar was lit with fat candles, wicks dug low into the wax to allow the flame a feeble chance to struggle against the frigid winds. The golden glow did not belong, too like sunlight against the shrouds of white and silver cloth rippling over dark stone, the shrine's representation of snow. He was comforted, and sat close to the weak warmth, respectfully accepting the humble offering of dried apples, red currants, and plums.

Between his fingertips he let the ice gather, clear and perfect, crystals shooting outward in perfectly ordered randomness. This was the essence of his season, something beautiful that seemed indiscriminately cruel but had a purpose and harmony if only one could see the patterns in apparent chaos. He left behind generous blessings and the fragile snowflake sculpture that would last well into the next season, a small miracle to repay the moment of peace.

That year, he persuaded Spring to carry a gift to Summer, a small gift to repay the now complete set of seasonal branches in his dark sanctuary.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

“What is it?”

It looked like human glass, felt a little like it, but the small cube was cold as the rivers that came down from the mountains in the earliest days of his season. Colder. The chill spread across his palm and made his skin burn, then tingle, then go numb entirely.

“Look closer.”

He could hear the amusement in Spring’s voice, and spared just a second to glare ineffectually, blushing at the gentle smile on the lovely spirit’s face and ruining any chance of intimidation. He brought the strange thing up close to his face, and his scowl faded into curiosity, wonder.

“What is it?” He stupidly repeated.

The top surface of the block was rounded, bulging outward, and when he looked right at the top of the thing the view of what was inside changed. Suddenly, the tiny bits of white that he thought were just bubbles or imperfections completely changed. Tilting his hand slightly brought each into focus in turn, and he stared, fascinated, at the precise, gleaming patterns of silvery white, each a unique form radiating out from a delicate or thickened center. Spiderwebs, but so much more orderly, each spoke an exact replica radiating around the middle.

“It's called snow. When Winter wakes, the rain, sometimes the very air freezes. Billions and billions of these snowflakes fall from the sky like ash after a fire, drifting gently, or blowing in great storms that block your sight. I’ve never seen the storms. Winter tells me they usually come deep in his season, when he begins to despair.”

“Despair?”

That word shook him from his trance, drew his eyes away from the miracle in his hand. How could any spirit despair in their season? And the enchanting white spirit that was nestled nearby under a mountain of furs, how _terribly wrong_ that such a beautiful being felt anything but joy.

“Winter’s is a dark season. All life rejoices in my season, thrives in your season, works and enjoys bounty in Autumn’s season. Only the wise see how necessary the cold season is. He bears it well, but do we not all feel lonely at times? How much worse if the entire world turns away from you in the moment you most keenly feel your solitude.”

Something shifted, a strange and unfamiliar sorrow in Summer’s chest. He watched the world change too quickly for true mourning, though even he felt such when we witnessed the passing of things he had admired. That was the only feeling he could relate this sensation to, the grief of loss.

“But you take care of him, right? When you’re together?”

Graceful Spring drew him close, and Summer blinked as he was gathered and held, face tucked into Spring’s shoulder. No one had ever offered him consolation like this. No one had ever needed to.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Autumn never kept track of the years. She hardly kept track of hours. Sometimes, he envied the way she would forget the impermanent things, always living for now like Winter had once believed he lived. Spring could keep track of years; he knew from his conversations with the learned spirit. Yet Spring seemed unaffected by time, an observer like Winter had once believed he would always be.

Years, each represented by a folded paper, he could count them easily. Each year, he would wake to Autumn’s cheerful lips and find a letter tucked into the vibrant green leaves above his head along with a different flower, a new one each year until the riot of fragrant blossoms preserved by Summer’s power crowded the rich green leaves. They were evidence that had at first caused unease, knowing that a presence he did not know had been so near when he was deep in slumber. Autumn only laughed and said Summer had insisted on seeing what he looked like. She did not recall that it was not the first time, nor the second, nor the tenth.

Thirty-two. Thirty-two slips of paper and thirty-two unique flowers. Thirty-two times waking with an odd sense of warmth. Thirty-one replies given to Spring to deliver to his unseen companion. Thirty-one precisely detailed sculptures of ice, exact replicas of each year’s flower washed of color and turned to cold diamond. He would faithfully study and sculpt this year's flower, large and lovely with three rings of purple petals around a heart like the sun. It was an activity that would cheer him on one of the darker nights, thinking of Summer as he worked the ice.

They were not monumental letters, not remarkable in the grand scheme of things. In the beginning they contained little more than greetings and some observations, perhaps a question or two such as two humans might ask to 'get to know each other.' Lately, the past twenty years or more, Winter had taken to carrying the letter and his response with him, writing lines whenever he had a thought worth sharing, as if they were having a conversation. It was a comfort, another point of contact with one of only three spirits that shared parallel experiences with him.

It seemed to him that Summer did something similar. The first letter was short, an introduction almost apologetic and barely less than formal. He had replied with similar ceremony. The second was so different it could have been written by another person, Autumn perhaps, full of excitable phrases and slanted hand. Until the latest, a cohesive paragraph of response to his own missive, then broken into varied thoughts, varied textures, and he imagined Summer, too, pulling out the papers carried close to his heart whenever he thought of sharing something with Winter.

Winter folded the thirty-second letter and stood from where he sat, leaning against the light wood of a bare birch tree, brushing the snowflakes from his kimono. They never melted against his skin, not until the end days of his season when Spring began to thaw the world. This year, during the days when warmth returned with his lovely companion, he would ask Spring for something more.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Winter knew that Spring had misgivings. The wise spirit was the bridge between Winter and Summer, the only entity who knew them both as more than words on a page. Spring hadn’t been pleased when Winter told him of the seasonal visits Summer made to sanctuary as he slumbered, criticizing both Summer and Autumn for breaking tradition and violating the period of rest. Once, Winter would have agreed, which is why he had never asked for this despite knowing Summer had seen him sleeping every year.

Summer’s sanctuary was unlike any of the others. Autumn’s alcove was a tribute to her own season, wild and comfortable for her with a few touches from the other seasons mixed with her spiced leaves. Spring had many mementos of Winter and Summer with his own season’s, but artfully arranged unlike this chaos. Everywhere, every surface from ceiling to floor was covered with paintings, flowers, rocks, shells, leaves, anything and everything that could catch the fancy of a curious and active spirit, including his letters, pinned open on the walls between other bits and baubles, and an odd garden sprouting from a stone ledge behind Summer’s sleeping head, a collection of flowers made of ice.

Winter stood blushing, looking around with wide eyes that eventually, inevitably, found their way to the spirit sprawled on his back, limbs tossed every which way, not on a bed but on a plot of thick, green grasses in the center of the clutter. The short, thin kimono of red with black trim barely would have covered to high thigh, had it not been untied and slipped almost completely off. Black linen drawers struggled, as well, pulled loose and clinging to partly exposed hips, dipping down in front to barely do their duty of shielding the spirit’s pride.

“Typical.”

Spring’s exasperated tone held a wealth of fondness, making Winter blush further. True, each of the seasons shared intimacy with little care for modesty, but Summer was not one of his companions. _Unfortunately_, he thought as his eyes absorbed the vision, bronze legs dusted with copper hair, torso defined by constant activity, hair orange-red, bright like the sun. And the face, he’d seen such a face on figures carved by humans, as lovely as Spring but stronger, bolder, broader cheekbones and defined jaw, thinner lips framed with laugh lines despite seeming to curve downward naturally.

Becoming aware that he was staring, fidgeting where he stood hovering over the sleeping form, he nearly fell on top of the bright spirit in an effort to do something with himself, gathering up the discarded sheet of finest golden fabric lighter than silk and carefully stepping onto the grass to drape it over most of the beautiful body. And he wondered, as he deliberately turned his eyes back to the oddly adorable mess around the alcove, what did Summer see when he came every year to gaze upon his sleeping form?

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

There were few duties that a seasonal spirit was obligated to. Truthfully, there were no rules to enforce, no judges to dole out rewards or punishments, only a set of instincts so deep that Summer had to actively think to even recognize that there were duties at all. There was no discomfort or unease when he could no longer visit every shrine, the numbers too vast now as human settlements multiplied, just the usual draw to stop by and acknowledge, give his blessings or withhold, which he rarely did withhold.

More of his time was spent with older obligations, blessing the forests and fields, the waterways and mountains. It saddened him that the changes were even more rapid now, the trees dying younger, the waters dirtied, the spirits smaller and shyer flitting away even from him when he came to offer grain and blessings.

Though the struggle for survival was his purview, watching over and encouraging life to make its claims and defend them, to reach for more resources to support and grow their own family, still he was disheartened. More frequently he would find his feet drawing him to witness scenes that were not natural, fields covered with the waste as whole herds were slaughtered by human hunters for little more than their hides, burnt villages laden with corpses of humans and livestock for no gain but supremacy, no need met but greed.

In an effort to understand and accept, Summer spent more time among humans. It achieved the opposite result, confusing him more as he observed selfishness and selflessness, purity and depravity, dichotomy such as exists in all life but magnified to a furious din of destructive thoughts all around him. Only once he lost his temper, hearing a group of humans cursing Winter, blaming the season for losses that were due to their own lack of attention. As easily blame Spring for not coming soon enough, Summer for not providing greater bounty, Autumn for not lasting longer to give their lazy preparations more time.

Summer retreated to a small shrine, a village nestled in a valley that offered some protection from the outside world’s increasingly senseless violence. The shrine was clean, comfortable, the local populace following tradition with open hearts. Winter had told him of this shrine in a letter with the most precise and perfect map etched on the corner of the cream-colored paper. Autumn had delighted in it when he brought her, and delighted again when they returned, each visit new to her. Spring had sighed in pleasure and spent an entire day haunting the valley, as at peace in the village as he was among his sakura trees.

It was a piece of the old world, this valley that had found the favor of all four seasons, the human settlement that was still in balance with nature. He lived in dread of the day this would change. And he sat in moody silence, contemplating what it might mean that he could feel things like nostalgia or fear for the future. He wrote of these internal conflicts, knowing that Winter would have calming wisdom to share, knowing that Winter would not hold back his own fears where Spring subjugated emotions to logic and Autumn simply forgot to worry.

Summer was changing.

He had glimpsed one of the last great dragons, scales flashing like emeralds in the sun before the spirit dove deep into the water, perhaps never to surface again. The shrine at the dragon's lake was not only to the seasons, one altar to honor the spirit of the lake, one for all other spirits, and one for a single god whose name Summer did not know. God, to him, was a force, not an entity to be named, a spirit that he was part of and not. Like time, it was a concept out of his reach and confounding should he try to define it.

Here, on the nameless altar to a nameless god, he laid his own offering, something he had never done before. The pile of grass grains was gold with maturity, ripe and full of his energy, and he added a few drops of his raw power in bright red blood, the old way. It was not a prayer, exactly, nor a request. He simply opened his heart and exposed the changes, his fear that he was no longer the timeless, selfless servant of his season. His heart was not pure, laden as it was with anger and dismay.

And he exposed to whatever powers that might listen the other flaw in his devotion to duty, though he hesitated. What if the response was to soothe his worries by removing his ability to care? He would not miss it, he supposed, becoming once more a spirit without a sense of time as he once was. But would he forget Winter? For that was the other flaw in his perfection, his growing attachment and the longing to do something to ease the beautiful spirit’s own burdens.

Summer did the only thing he could do, think of everything that troubled him and leave it in the hands of any force greater than he to address or ignore.

On such an innocent wish, the world can turn.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Autumn was certain she was forgetting something as she stared up at the spirit of Summer, letting the hot bliss spread from her lips and the cheek where his hand had brushed, as always surprisingly tender for one so fierce looking. Then she smiled, pulling on his blood-red hair to get him to kiss her again. His brown eyes widened as he complied, almost hesitant before letting her pull him all the way down. She laughed at him, finding and tracing the black stripes like lightning bolts on his neck.

Their time together flew by, a blur of sunny days and cooling nights, and she delighted in flitting about from shrine to mountain, city to coast, encouraging him when he started to tire. Summer always tried so hard, grumbling and letting her say goodnight with a final kiss that took the last of his energy. She seemed a little lost for a second but shrugged off the feeling as she scattered some leaves and nearly dried flowers over the strong, sleeping form of Summer.

Her season was a whirlwind, and she danced at festivals, welcomed the storms on the sea, greeted the night earlier and earlier until her heart called on her to return to the high sanctuary. Something seemed different as she gazed at the small spirit curled in the pile of furs. Winter’s hairstyle had changed, perhaps.

Wise Winter, pretty Winter in her dress of silver and white, white hair, mysterious eyes like the dusky purple twilight. She kissed the cold lips, laughing her greeting as the small spirit frowned and pushed her lightly away. Winter was always like that, aloof and reserved until she woke fully and turned to Autumn for company. And Autumn would be there, ready to embrace the cold spirit again.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Spring had seen many wondrous things, some nearly forgotten, some held dear. He vowed never to forget the presence already trying to fade from his mind, staring into the big, violet eyes of solemn Winter as she gave a formal greeting and focusing on remembering every detail of teal eyes and wild hair, the constant scowl and the fey smile, the way cold skin warmed under his hand and distant gaze turned more and more frequently to meet his.

It was two days later when Winter started to come closer, nearly touching as she leaned over his shoulder to look at the painting.

“Who are they?”

The color of the skin was hard to get right, not quite as pale as hers which was almost as white as snow. The eyes were easy, at least the vibrant color, though he didn't think he'd ever catch the complex heart behind the intense blue-green. The taller man in his painting was easier, such honesty and openness in rich brown eyes, such a lovely shade of bronze-gold skin that seemed to glow in an aura around him, brighter even than the odd orange hair. He painted them together, a thing never seen, never possible, hand-in-hand walking under the pale pink blossoms.

“Just some men I happened to see. I suppose the pale one reminds me of you.”

“Hmph.”

He smiled and let the brush rest. Winter needed his attention.

Spring suspected what he would find as the days warmed and lengthened. It was why he had spent a good deal of time visiting places he often had with his two seasonal companions, imprinting memories. He did not mourn and walked into the quiet, undecorated alcove at peace with the change he was certain he would find. Summer sprawled half-clothed on the grass, and he could not hold back a chuckle even as a last moment of sadness came and went.

He admired Summer's stripes and blocks of repeating patterns, black against bronze, skin so very warm, silky, like petting a tiger as he tentatively stroked exposed ribs and leaned close to offer the kiss that would wake his beautiful companion. And he smiled into the rich brown eyes as they blinked up at him, offering his greetings.

The part of him that would always, always remember missed the ones he had painted, the ones already becoming distant in his thoughts. That part of him hoped that what he suspected was true, that they were together, somehow, somewhere.


	4. A Life Well-Loved - Part One

The valley was a blessed place. Guarded on three sides by impassable mountains, the two narrow passes were barely used by determined traders, hard to find. The village was old-fashioned, autonomous. Every now and then a young person would wander off, seeking adventure in the wider world. Less often, some stranger would find their way to the isolated valley and almost always decide to stay. And why wouldn’t they? The forest was full of game and timber, the ground fertile, the river clean and brimming with fish. Despite being nestled high in the mountains, the valley was shielded from the winter storms and enjoyed the cool breezes even in summer.

Toshiro didn’t like the city he grew up in, but it was a known evil and he liked being sent away even less. His mother had died over a year ago, hunger and hardship weakening her before the fever tore through the city. Then his father had been conscripted into the army and sent his only child away to live with his grandmother in the peaceful valley, far from the wars that had torn their family apart. Toshiro knew it wasn’t likely he’d ever see his father again.

But this place was beautiful, and he couldn’t hate it even if he didn’t want to be there. His grandmother, whom he had not seen since he was a toddler, was very kind, quiet, and patient with his dark moods that masked homesickness. He didn’t miss the city itself. He had no friends there, no one who would miss the neighborhood freak. What he missed was the security of knowing what to expect. And he tried not to worry about what the children here would think of him. It was a small village, few places to hide, no way to avoid knowing anyone.

It didn’t help when his gran had apparently volunteered him for the Summer Pageant. It was a quaint little custom, a parade through the village and up the hill to the shrine four times a year to honor each season. The local legends described each season like a person – spring refined and elegant, summer strong and bright, fall boisterous and happy, winter somber and pale. He couldn’t argue the fact that he fit the description of the winter spirit much better than the angry, oddly bald teenager that had been playing the part. And his gran said it would be a great way to join the village and meet new people.

Shouting and a couple of shrill screams tore through the low hum of tireless insects, drawing a few glances from grazing cattle and some laughter from adults gathered in small groups on various shaded porches. Mild or not, summer heat always brought such alarming noises, small feet stirring up dust as children raced to the deep pool under the waterfall running fast and cool, promising relief from the rising summer sun.

On one of the porches, he watched the storm of dust and dirty children pass, noisier than a parade of troops, which is something Toshiro then realized he would never see in this village. This place was untouched by war and had nothing the outside world wanted. He looked down at his feet, confused by momentary happiness at the thought that he was safe, knowing that his father was not.

“Hey!”

Startled, he looked up, hand tightening around his gran’s fingers as a strange sensation washed over him, a feeling like the air before a lightning strike, heavy pressure and yet charged with the stinging lightness of possibility.

The squealing, racing children were disappearing around a corner in the road, but one boy had stopped, looking right at him with shining white teeth in a wide smile and tea-colored eyes nearly as bright as the wild mop of hair the color of ripe peaches. The boy was probably around his age, though Toshiro was shorter and skinny. People said he looked 10 instead of 13, not strong and tall like this boy.

“Wow, you’ve got really pretty eyes. You wanna come swim?”

Swallowing hard, he searched the dirt-smudged, darkly tanned face. Most kids made fun of his eyes, and his hair. Well, this one couldn’t really make fun of his hair, he supposed. He felt his gran nudge him lightly and he let go of her hand, suddenly self-conscious and not wanting to look like a little baby clinging to his mom. Not that he had a mom to cling to, anymore.

“I can’t. I have to get a costume.”

“It's alright, sweetie, we can do it this evening.” He shot his gran a look of hurt for the betrayal.

The young woman he’d been dragged to see, to get measured and decorated for the pageant, smiled kindly at him. “My Ichigo is in the pageant, too. His second year.”

“You’re in the pageant?” The boy seemed unreasonably cheerful about such a silly thing. “Oh, you must be the new Winter! Wow, we’ll be perfect with you on board. Momo’s taking over Autumn, Yumi’s been Spring forever which is great, but Ikkaku was a crap Winter.”

“Ichigo!”

“Sorry, mom, but it’s true. I mean, I get it, Winter's supposed to be serious and all, but Ikkaku was always grumbling and shoving everyone and he doesn't look serious, he looks like he's got a stick up his . . .”

“Ichigo! Do not make me swat your behind in front of such polite company!"

"So, wanna swim?”

Toshiro just blinked at the loud boy, barely able to keep up. And his gran betrayed him again.

“Go on, Toshiro. You love swimming.”

“You do? Great! Come on!”

He froze, forcing himself not to take a step back as the boisterous, tall boy practically bounced up onto the porch, yanking his hand back though he failed to evade being captured in long fingers already callused and strong. And there it was, the promise of the tension delivered in a lightning strike that he didn't understand at all, making him gasp and pull back desperately though it did nothing to help him escape.

“I said no!” he snapped, then remembered that there were still adults here, reminded by his gran clearing her throat. “Thank you. I’d rather stay here.”

Suddenly, everything about the taller boy changed, becoming more relaxed, eager smile softening and eyes seeming to darken to rich brown as they slowly blinked at him. But his hand was not released, and he couldn’t help but notice how warmth seemed to climb from his hand up his arm, as if the boy was made of the sunlight that glowed in a bright halo around him.

“I’m Ichigo, by the way. I’m Summer, obviously. Did you know the Summer Pageant is on my birthday? So, you could think of it as a birthday gift. It would make me really happy if you’d come swimming, Toshiro.”

Panic receded with the kind words, though the soft light in the soulful eyes had more to do with Toshiro feeling the buzzing energy shift from fear to anticipation. For the first time, though certainly not the last, he found himself ceasing to argue, ceasing even to think, nodding as he stared into those honey eyes, completely entranced.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

It had been a year and five months. There was a thick layer of morning snow, fresh and sparkling white. Thousands of diamonds hung on the branches in his grandfather's orchard, catching and playfully tossing the morning light in a glittering display. These details he would never forget.

The first time he'd seen his beautiful Winter, he'd felt like he was witnessing the first dawn of the world. Far too romantic a notion for an almost 13-year-old. Only seconds that seemed an eternity later, he had touched the smoothest, softest skin in the world, a feeling of tranquility grounding him even as he became weightlessly giddy. These feelings he would never, ever forget.

“It's freezing out here, you lunatic!” Not that he cared. Not that the chill touched him at all when he watched the pretty eyes roll in mock exasperation. “Why did we have to come out here at dawn?”

Now the orbs that perfectly matched the clear winter sky above stared at him, almost confused, then darted away, churning with what? Disappointment? Embarrassment? Toshiro always, always presented himself as confident, a kind of arrogance that would have earned the new guy in town a place as an outcast if it hadn't been for Ichigo. And Ichigo could see right through it, right to the soft underbelly of insecurity and awkward shyness that he found frankly adorable, though he'd never say it. Instead, he worked hard to show the brilliant, gorgeous young man that his self-doubts were misplaced.

“I just wanted you to see . . .”

He stepped closer, boots creaking in the new snow. He placed his hands on the narrow shoulders, gently rubbing at the too-thin layers of cotton, plain russet cloth that was not at all flattering in cut or color though even that took nothing away from how stunning Toshiro looked with cheeks flushed pink, white hair seeming to glitter like the snow, eyes brighter than the icy crystals refracting the clear dawn light in rainbows all around. This sight he would never, not as long as he lived, forget.

“It's amazing, Toshiro,” he looked around slowly, appreciating the wonderland again before settling a gaze full of every bit of surprising love he felt for this young man, known only for one year and five months and loved unreasonably for every day. He wasn't looking at the scenery, and the gemstone eyes locked on his knew this. “It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

Ichigo had expected to be the one to initiate their first. He'd planned it, dreamed of it, come so close to doing it a thousand times. All fantasies paled to insignificance when he was pulled down by surprisingly strong fingers tangled in his shirt and his hair, and the serious flaws in his imagination were revealed. It was simple, just a press of chilly lips that almost flinched away when he stood there like a poleaxed idiot while a thousand million little diamond snowflakes whirled around in his head, his stomach, and lower parts that should stay out of this or risk scaring Toshiro out of his arms.

The way his hands slipped over the shoulders and pulled Toshiro off balance, he had been on tip-toe, after all, was as clumsy as the eager press of his lips in return. It was a simple kiss, and the most complicated, intriguing, important thing that had ever happened to anyone in the entire world, ever, and Ichigo will never, not in a million years, forget one second.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

The people who lived in the valley knew they were blessed. The village shrine was a simple one, an old one, a stone rotunda with four altars dedicated to the four seasons. There were new shrines, to new gods, but the true shrine was ancient, set in a grove apart from the cultivated fields and warm hearths, keeping close to nature. Everyone in the village had witnessed the small miracles at the shrine of the seasons, offerings vanished, blessings left that could not be mistaken, tangible gifts from the spirits.

Ichigo brought his family’s offering. It had been a good summer, a sweet autumn, and he placed small rice cakes at each altar, rice he had personally planted and raised, harvested and cooked. Another for spring, in hopes that the season would come soon. And for the winter that was ready to begin, a larger cake drizzled with honey along with a small, bright bouquet of wildflowers, the little ones that grew in the thick parts of the forest and held on until the snows came.

“I brought some, too.”

He turned with a smile, heart speeding up as it always did when he caught sight of white hair and eyes the color of winter dawn.

“Thought you said it was silly to offer flowers to Winter.”

“It is silly to offer anything to an idea. But if there were such a thing as a spirit of Winter, I should think flowers would be most appreciated.”

So cynical. So very sweet and sentimental underneath that stern logic. He wrapped his arms around the smaller frame, ignoring the pushing hand and the angry huff to pull his angel close.

“Let me go, Ichigo. Not here.”

“Why? Because someone might see us?”

“Idiot. This is a shrine.”

“Where better? We’ll get married here, someday.”

“You say such a thing as if it is written in stone. Life isn't that certain.”

A life of honest work and a love of the outdoors had slowly painted the white skin with the color of sunbeams through thick leaves, pale gold and inherently kissable. He smiled against the soft cheek that hesitated a moment before moving away with a little hum.

“This is,” he slid his arm all the way around the narrow waist. “We are.”

“You've only known me for two years, idiot.”

“Two and a half. And so what? I've loved you for eons.”

There was a faint huff of breath as Toshiro nuzzled his cheek into Ichigo's shoulder. Hiding a blush, and, maybe, a pleased little smile.

“Happy sixteenth birthday. You’ve gotten taller.”

He knew the growl was not truly angry. Couldn’t be, not when Toshiro failed to step out of his firm embrace. Prickly little love, but so adorably soft once Ichigo smoothed down his white hackles. Petting the shorter tufts of hair and trailing fingers along the willowy neck earned him a view of that captivating face, bright eyes slowly trailing up to his.

“Not enough, you great tree.”

If ever there was an invitation . . . he bent again, capturing cool lips and feeling them grow warm, feeling the long lashes brush his cheek, feeling the heart so close by racing to catch up with his, feeling the sudden smack of a hand against his rear.

“Toshiro!” Typical, yelling at her grandson but he was the one who got abused with more quick smacks. “This is a holy shrine, young man! _And you_, out, out, you corrupting ruffian!”

He did the only thing a strapping 15-year-old could do when faced with an ancient crone and a snickering boyfriend who refused to step in between him and the wrinkly dragon bearing down to smack some more – he fled.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

“_Toshiro, don't. For me. Just . . . don't leave._”

The words were there, hovering on the tip of his tongue. The plea had been on a constant repeating loop in his mind for days, ever since the letter had arrived with a rare traveling merchant, the letter from Toshiro’s father, injured in a battle and too ill to travel to see his only son one last time, the letter saying goodbye. But he didn't ask, couldn't ask such a selfish thing. He'd never been outside the valley, well, not farther than a few long hikes purely for enjoyment. He knew what the world outside was like from those that had traveled, those that had found sanctuary here, from Toshiro. And he knew that he truly knew nothing.

“One way or the other, I'll be back before winter.”

“_Unless you aren't. Unless you're killed out there and I lose you forever._”

He didn't say that, either. Instead, he pretended that watching his heart ripped out and carried away was fine, just fine with him. He had plenty of practice. Ever since Toshiro had told him that he was returning to the city he came from to try to find his father, Ichigo had been pretending. And he would pretend a little more, holding the lithe body one more time, wrapping himself around the clean scent of frost and tea and pretending he was okay. And he watched with a fake smile until the white hair disappeared over the horizon. Then, he took up his sword and the pack he'd already prepared, and he followed, just as he had promised not to do.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

“No! Fool. You absolute fool. What were you even . . . NO! Ichigo, don't . . . don't you leave me!”

He was a fool, Toshiro was always right. Toshiro was strong, and brave, and had managed to travel to the city and find his father and make his way back out without any trouble. It was harder to hide from other humans when you had a cart with an invalid, though. Ichigo had thought he was doing the right thing when he'd rushed in to save Toshiro from men intent on robbing and harming his love, honestly he had. But he was always a fool. Look how it had turned out.

_Don't cry, pretty Winter. I'm right here._

Words just didn't come out anymore, no matter how hard he tried. Oh, Toshiro should never cry. It's too beautiful, and too wrong for this world.

“Ichigo! Don't . . . _please_ . . .”

The pain was draining away into a pleasant, cold numbness. Toshiro must have talked him into lying outside at night to watch snowflakes fall. Such a sentimental softee, cuddling on the hill between the peach trees where they'd had their first kiss, looking up at drifting, glinting white appearing as if by magic on the canvas of black and gray. But as usual, his darling was right, it was even prettier than stars.

It wasn't snowing though, it couldn't be, still in the heart of autumn. And where was Toshiro?

“Hey.”

“Huh? Who're you?”

Everything was kinda gray, kinda brown, and he was nowhere. Didn't hurt, but he couldn't even lift his head to look for Toshiro. Was he dead? That was hardly fair. He didn't even get to marry his Winter.

Was it just that he was kinda sleepy and confused, or did he know this woman?

“That looks bad. Guess that's what happens when you jump in front of a sword. Humans sure are fragile.”

She was grinning, the strange girl kneeling beside him, like she was pleased to watch him bleed out. She had a point, though. Toshiro had been working with a sword since before Ichigo ever met him; everyone in the city learned to use weapons. Ichigo had tried to learn from him, but he wasn't as good; he always got distracted, so many things to do rather than practice with a weapon he never intended to use.

And his Winter did this weird fighting thing that could knock a man out with barely one hand even when he was small. Sure, Ichigo had picked up a little bit himself, but what was he thinking trying to protect Toshiro when it was quite clear which one of them knew his way around pointy objects well enough to not get stabbed?

“Fragile. Yeah, I guess.”

Clear which one was the clever one, too.

“Where's my Winter?”

“Winter? You know Winter? Wow, that's neat. Say, you look a little familiar. So does he, come to think of it.”

He stared, but the scene was getting a bit fuzzy. Yes, she definitely looked familiar. Smelled familiar, too, like baking pie and spiced wine. But he was sure he'd remember a girl with purple-black hair and eyes like honey. There was something about her no one could ever forget.

“Well, I suppose Winter might be mad at me if I let one of her friends die. Besides, you two are adorable.”

What a strange way to die. He was a bit angry about it honestly, her warm cinnamon lips were not the ones he wanted to feel as he left this ugly world.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

The last words Toshiro would ever use to describe himself were devout, spiritual, superstitious. Despite living in a village that was undeniably and joyously pious in a very natural way, despite joining in the holy traditions with not just tolerance, but good cheer, Toshiro didn't in the least believe in spirits, demons, gods, or any other agency than human will and the natural order.

And yet . . .

He returned from the dawn trip to the shrine both anxious and hopeful. Every day had been a small improvement. If there were such things as miracles, each dawn was a new miracle just for him, and he'd lay every coin and flower and grain and cake he could find on the small altars day after day just to have this, just to know that tomorrow he will once again feel grateful enough to climb to the shrine and thank beings he didn't believe in for one more day.

“Toshiro,” his gran's voice called from the kitchen, “porridge is on the table.”

She called it porridge at breakfast, but it was really stew, thick and rich with pulverized meat and a variety of vegetables to provide as much nutrition as possible in every bite. He held the tray a moment, drawing in a deep breath to compose himself. Ichigo shouldn't have survived. All the elders and healers and wise old women agreed that Toshiro should have just been thankful to have gotten the idiot back to the village still breathing, where he could say his goodbyes in peace.

Fears lessened hour by hour, but never disappeared. Abdominal wounds were almost always fatal, and often it took weeks, blood and less clean things seeping through openings that should not be there to poison the entire body. His father had seen many such wounds in the army, and calmly explained all this to both of them during Ichigo's more lucid moments, wanting them to understand and prepare. Prepare for Ichigo's painful death.

At first, Toshiro had been enraged by the cool acceptance and irrational optimism of his lover, and yelled at him that if the damned fool hadn't been convinced of his own immortality, none of this would have happened. Of course, his apology was twice as embarrassing, sobbing all over the strangely serene man tucked in a cocoon of blankets soon soaked with Toshiro's tears and snot.

With that humbling memory in mind, he pushed open the door, his carefully choreographed smile widening in genuine happiness at the sight of his father in his favorite chair, quietly chatting with Ichigo who was, for the first time, clear-eyed and even propped just a little on a couple of pillows.

“About time, love.”

He blushed slightly, missing a step as he glanced sideways. But the easy smile on his father's face didn't falter, a raised brow and a look of realization like everything suddenly made sense. The village was different. Ichigo had no idea how cruel the rest of the world was to those who were 'not normal,' including men who fell in love with other men. He'd been worried about his father's reaction, though instantly he could see that he needn't have been concerned.

“I was about to send Juushiro out to find some bread for me to gnaw on before I starved to death. Survive a sword through my guts just to starve in bed. Wouldn't that just beat all?”

The laughter that spilled out of him, he knew, contained a note of hysteria but also an overwhelming relief. There was joy in Ichigo's continued existence, joy that he had found his father, not soon enough to save the man's body from the ravages of injury and deprivation but in time to save his life. But there was more. Toshiro was never certain he could be happy here, that he could be enough for Ichigo, that he deserved the peace and acceptance he had found. Not until that moment. The fates, the spirits, gods, luck, whatever it was had given him a miracle, given him back his Summer. He intended to honor that gift by accepting the joy of a life filled with love.

Despite four years in the company of the most ridiculous, enchanting, exasperating man he could imagine, despite the frequency of his smile in the warmth of Ichigo's presence, laughter was not a common thing, sounding foreign and unsure, rough as if his throat did not know how to control the hiccups of breath. It drew a concerned smile that quickly turned wondering and wondrous, only making him laugh more as his father levered himself up from the chair and moved the tray of food to the small table, weakened body just strong enough for the task, and made his way quietly out the door, leaving the two to collapse together on the bed in joyous relief.


	5. A Life Well-Loved - Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for quoted poetry in this chapter:  
Henry Austin Dobson  
"A Song of the Four Seasons"

Winter seemed to last forever. The long nights were spent curled together in a pile of blankets, no one under his gran's roof having any reasonable objection to them sharing a bed when they would have been, should have been married already had he not run off after receiving the alarming letter from his father, had his precious idiot not followed and nearly gotten killed trying to play hero. The bright days were spent on gradually lengthening walks to regain strength. Sometimes, Toshiro wished that the winter would never end, content with his family around the fire, Ichigo's obnoxious father, loving mother, happy sisters coming frequently to join them, making the little house crowded and warm.

Inexorably, the seasons turned. Spring was a flurry of activity, the work he and Ichigo had barely started became the pet project of the entire village. Toshiro was not the only one that loved Ichigo, a fact he tried not to be jealous of. His Summer was too bright to hide him away, and everyone adored the warmth and light Ichigo brought to all.

It was a small but charming home just at the edge of the forest, on the other side of the orchard Ichigo's grandfather had given to them before he died. There was solitude, a bit of privacy to ease the anxiety that still crept upon him after too much time in the company of others than his Summer. It was near enough to the village and the fields to be easy for Ichigo. It was the ideal place to start their new life together, and the hands of everyone they knew had a part in creating it. His father and his soon-to-be husband were there, too, hammering and sawing, polishing and painting, every movement watched by gran who was ready to beat both men within an inch of their lives if they ruined her work getting them back on their feet.

It was at times almost intolerable, almost too painful the way his heart, his mind, his gut, everything in him came alive and sung when he so much as caught a glimpse of that sunlight smile or that silly orange hair. He was granted a reprieve as the days grew warmer, a rest for his heart that surely would not survive the constant jolts with each touch of fingers once again becoming bronzed and strong. Though there was no bride, and certainly, he thought with both a smirk and a blush, no virgin, Ichigo's romantic parents insisted on tradition, including a period of separation before the wedding. A week apart was both torture and relief, and not surprisingly difficult to achieve in such a small, close-knit community.

“There, that should do it. My goodness, Toshiro, you've grown half a foot over the winter! And at eighteen. I swear you did it just to ruin my work.”

“Really, I am sorry Kurosa . . .”

“Do not make me stab you with this pin.”

“. . . Masaki.”

“Or you could try mother.”

His smile was more like a grimace. It wasn't that he didn't love her. He loved Masaki more than he could ever express, and the twins, and even Ichigo's crazy father. Toshiro just never felt comfortable with displaying affection in word let alone deed. There had only ever been one exception to that, one person who was the exception to everything. So, he evaded with little grace.

“It is quite beautiful,” he said for the hundredth time, admiring the precise stitching of silver thread turning a plain white robe into something unbelievably precious, then froze as she stood and cupped her hand against his cheek for just a moment.

“You are beautiful, my boy. My son always was the lucky one.”

Though he could not bring himself to respond to her compliment nor the many others he received, the attention wound his nerves even tighter, urging him to run. He wanted Ichigo to run with him, away from all of them, away to their little cottage where they could lock the door and pretend to be the only two people in the world for at least a few years, long enough to forget how damned social he had been forced to be for endless weeks. He knew the separation from his love made it worse, the anxiety, the growing fear that he did not deserve this, that he was not and could never be good enough for his magnificent Summer.

As the small procession accompanying the 'bride' rounded the corner out of the village, the shrine came into view and with it the greater crowd gathered outside the stone rotunda, throwing flowers and cheering, ready to devour him whole in their noise and enthusiasm. A flash of pure panic, and he was searching for an escape route even as his feet continued forward.

His eye caught something remarkably out of place, and yet as he paused and stared, nothing in the world seemed to belong nearly as much. It was under one of the largest sakura trees, standing beneath the vault of fragrant pink petals. It took a moment for his mind to process . . . well, of course it was simply a man, what else would it be? A stranger, yet his racing heart calmed as if seeing an old friend. Though what would Toshiro know of old friends; he had no such connections.

The man was beautiful, a word used to describe him so many times today, inaccurately, for this man was the second most beautiful creature he'd ever laid eyes on, aristocratic mien, raven-black hair held back with silver adornments, clear gray eyes that held an inhuman wisdom. And the man smiled gently, a smile Toshiro seemed to know was as rare as his own, and he could see it clearly despite the distance.

An elegant hand was raised, heavy silk sleeve of red with pink blossoms, pale palm flashing in a brief salutation. Before he could return the gesture that felt oddly like a blessing, a gust of wind sent a flurry of pink petals swirling across the hillside. When the wind settled, the vision was gone, leaving behind only a sense of profound peace and well-being.

His father's concerned prodding recalled him to the world, and he smiled gently, assuring everyone that he was alright. He was more than alright. Though it was merely a formality at this point, he was about to marry the man he loved and adored and worshipped, the only person he felt ever really understood him, the man who saw all his flaws and said sincerely that each one was beautiful.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

“Good morning, love. Breakfast?”

Their usual routine never failed to cheer him up, not that he truly needed any more happiness in his life. It was a mere bonus that the autumn morning's chill brought a rosy flush to his husband's pale cheeks and a decidedly brighter gleam to already stunning eyes. Every morning, rain, snow, or shine, Toshiro went to the shrine at dawn. His husband was now the unofficial keeper of the holy place, regarded as particularly pious by the townsfolk, though any comment or look that complimented Toshiro's religious dedication was met with a dark scowl or a cutting remark usually too clever for the insulted part to understand.

Ichigo found it all charming, hiding his fond smiles at such moments and redoubling his efforts to distract his prickly love from the rest of the world.

“Ah, watermelon at breakfast. What are you apologizing for?”

The infamous scowl was turned on him, though it wasn't the same one his Winter turned on others. This particular glower was just for him, barely masking exasperated affection.

“Haven't done anything,” he answered honestly in the face of the suspicious glare, “yet. But you know, I've been thinking.”

“You really should leave dangerous things to me, Ichigo.”

“Har, har. It's just, I know we gave your gran's house to that family,” he spoke slowly, remembering how the usually stoic man had sobbed for days. Even Toshiro's father's death had been easier on him, on them both. “But I thought maybe we could afford to do a little more.”

A deep sigh, and the gem eyes dropped. Rather than grief or anger, Toshiro just seemed suddenly bored, the way he would when Ichigo was saying something stupid or rambling on about people his husband didn't care about. He tried not to feel irritated at the dismissive air. This was important.

“Some of the kids that brought in the harvest with me have been helping with building the new barn, and a few of them want to hire on for next planting season. It's going to be nice having some extra hands again, what with Karin and Yuzu grown and busy with their own families.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Anyway, there's that one kid, Kazui, you've met him, the one with red hair. He's been there every day. Comin' today, too, I expect. And the Kotetsu's took him in along with a bunch of others, but it's really crowded and he's the youngest, not that he'd ever complain. Kids got a heart of gold.”

_Orphaned at only six_, he didn't say, not wanting this to be about emotional manipulation. Toshiro knew all this, anyway. His husband understood better than most when the small pack of refugees found their way over the mountain pass into the valley. Toshiro had been one of the first and the most generous to offer help, knowing first-hand the violence and sorrow that came with war.

“So, I was thinking, that workshop we're building into the barn, I know it's to give you more room for better tools and all, but while we're still building we could make some adjustments, maybe give up some space to add a small bedroom. He'd earn his food, he's a good worker, but I know you've always wanted that shop, and I won't do anything you don't want. So. What do you think?”

Another deep sigh, and his husband was leaning forward over the half-empty plate to stare intently into his eyes. He held his breath.

“I think you are an idiot. I've been waiting years, and I want the workshop exactly as we planned it.” His heart sank. True, Toshiro didn't like kids, didn't like humans in general. And the man hated not having privacy, which would undoubtedly be an issue with a young boy around. Still, he'd thought . . .

“There will be plenty of room out there for all my things, and I'll get some peace from your yammering on the days you're home if I move the rest of my equipment out of the spare bedroom. It doesn't make sense for me to work in two places, and it certainly doesn't make sense for Kazui to live in the barn if he's going to be part of the family.”

He was around the table and in his husband's lap before he knew it, kissing the smirking lips for all he was worth. The clever bastard didn't even have the grace to look surprised, moving his chair back from the table before Ichigo had heard the word “family” and started to move. Ichigo was the one surprised, and a bit ashamed, as always, by how he could have forgotten for one second that his chilly, harsh Winter hid the most generous spirit and giving heart he had ever imagined.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

He heard the well-known pattern of Ichigo's footsteps, the crunch swishing of long grass joining the peaceful symphony of birdsong, humming insects, rustling leaves. Late summer was too hot for his taste, but the evening was promising relief, particularly here under the orchard trees, his favorite place to relax in rare solitude.

“Alright?”

“Mmm.”

Eyes still closed, watching the shadows of bright light through swaying branches, he felt his husband settle on the blanket next to him. In this, too, Ichigo was the exception, his presence not in the least disturbing the peace he had desperately needed.

“They're all packing up to go. Kazui said he'll be back alone in a couple of days to help break up that monster oak. What are you planning for it, anyway?”

He hadn't meant to flee from family, the house full of loved ones. Sometimes, it just became overwhelming with very little warning. His husband and his son knew this about him, and forgave him without being asked. He was still beyond happy to have them visit, particularly his brand new grandson. What a thought, him a grandfather, and to such a perfect, beautiful boy. The first time he had held Natsuo, precious and tiny and new, had reminded him of the first moment he had seen Ichigo. Back then, he had never suspected his heart was capable of holding so much for so many.

“Beams.”

“Huh? Thought it was going to be something fancy.”

It was, indeed. It was not always the things that caught the eye that truly mattered.

“Kazui's house is going to need an addition.”

“It's plenty big enough.”

He cracked one eye open, turning his head slightly to find Ichigo propped on an elbow, staring intently at him. He stared back, taking in the serene happiness, the lines etched by laughter and hard work in the blazing sun. His Summer had always been beautiful, but the maturity of a middle-aged man suited him well. Then again, he suspected he would always look into those cherished russet eyes year after year and think, _now . . . now he is at his most breathtaking_.

“They'll have at least two more. How could they resist after meeting Natsuo?”

His smile, he was sure, had the same ghost of longing in it, under the tender wonder. It was too much to ask after the miracle of finding one another, the miracle of their life together, but he had never been able to stop himself from imagining what it would have been like, what their child would have looked like. And yet, they had Kazui, their remarkable boy, more a part of them both than they could have asked for. And now Natsuo, along with the promise of more, of a growing family; it was more than enough.

“Oh, did I mention? Airi is pregnant again.”

White teeth flashed at him as he let out a heavy sigh. As if their little family wasn't becoming too large to handle, Yuzu's four daughters seemed inclined to double the population of the village all on their own.

“This town is getting too big, Ichigo. I think we should look into moving someplace quieter.”

Ichigo told him he was a terrible liar, and he was, and he sighed again under the onslaught of chuckling kisses. It was still and always a mystery to him, how he had ended up in the center of all this beauty and love, but he couldn't deny that there was nowhere else he could even dream of being.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

“Dad? You in there?”

He sighed, carefully straightening and stretching, wiping off and setting aside the gouge, going through a little personal ritual to withdraw his mind from his work. Kazui was in the doorway by the time he looked, struggling to hold on to a squirming toddler.

“Now, Kazui,” his voice was loud and stern, “what have I told you about children in the workshop? Especially this little terror.”

Said terror squealed and giggled, wriggling so much that her grandfather's strong hands were not strong enough. Only just turned two and she moved like a small tornado, stirring a cloud of wood curls and sawdust as she sprang forward. He scooped her up, ignoring the way his back complained now about such a light weight, holding her out and up and giving the lightest little shake as if she was a naughty puppy.

“Horrible child, bothering an old man while he's working.”

Her bubbling laugh was the most beautiful sound in the world. Well, maybe the second, behind Ichigo's laughter. Or third, because there was Ichigo's singing to consider. Okay, solid fifth, mustn't forget Ichigo's deep moans and that whimpering noise he'd make when Toshiro's tongue . . .

“Dad, you seen Pop?”

He drew his great-granddaughter close against his shoulder, letting her nuzzle into his hair, same obsession as her great-grandfather. For all they weren't actually related, little Masaki was Ichigo's blood through and through.

“Ah, yes. Your fool father managed to sprain his wrist and beak two fingers helping clear out the boulders in Madarame's new pasture. Like that muscle-bound moron needs any help. But try to tell your father he's too old to be doing farm-work anymore, and there he'll be, hauling 80-pound rocks. He's down at the healer's. Should be back any minute.”

His adopted son had stepped forward, running a calloused hand down the last section of rough, unfinished wood. This was the headboard, the actual art. The frame and decorative but not elaborate posts were done and stored to the side of the workshop, near the other project that no one spoke of except him and Ichigo.

“It's beautiful, Dad. I think It might be the finest thing you've ever made.”

Not true, the other final project was the finest thing he'd ever made. But he was very proud of it, and it would be the last detailed work, he knew. His hands couldn't do it anymore, each carving taking ages. It was for the little one in his arms, though he had started it before she was born, their first and so far only great-grandchild.

Toshiro wasn't modest about his work, even if most of his life was spent making more practical things, shovels and shelves, spoons and strainers, humble items needed by every family. This was a masterpiece, one he expected to be an heirloom, surviving through generations.

The scene on the headboard was a common theme, uncommonly done, the four seasons depicted in quarters around a sunburst in the center. The broad quadrant on top - glorious summer fields of wheat and trees heavy with fat leaves and fruit. Autumn to the right with a riot of leaves inlayed with rich woods of pale yellow to deep red, needing no stain. Winter at the bottom, dark woods with flecks of quartz, a ribbon of mother of pearl a frozen river. And soft spring to the left, flowers and delicate leaves under carvings of sakura blossoms. He hadn't been able to get the color right without staining, which he refused to do, but he'd managed a glossy deep red myrtle with polished rose quartz embedded.

“Pretty.”

“There you have it.” He tickled Masaki's chin just to make her laugh again. “And the customer's always right. Come on. I should knock the dust off and make some lunch.”

That got Kazui's attention. He had Ichigo's appetite and feeding the two of them would mean another trip to the market tomorrow. He followed the boy, now a 48-year-old grandfather, and didn't that just beat all, as Kazui started chatting about his son Natsuo, Masaki's father, who was what passed for the local wiseman. Toshiro took credit for that, finding at last someone who wanted to share his love of books and study nature, history, anything that he could get his hands on.

As he shuttered the lamp, his eyes ran over the almost finished double coffin, the one Kazui quite obviously did not glance at. It was far simpler in appearance than the headboard, far more complex in execution, the work of years with all his skill and love poured into every line. Kazui and the rest of the family pretended it didn't exist, like the lack of a final resting place meant the two old patriarchs would never die. They thought it morbid, as well, the clear expectation that one of them would not outlive the other.

Only Ichigo understood, sitting with him when he was carving, helping with polishing and setting hinges, running his magnificent hands over the elaborate wood. The theme was the same, spring and autumn scenes on the narrower ends, summer and winter on the long panels. But the design was far more subtle, seemingly random though pleasing swirls of various types of wood that only formed a picture when you weren't quite looking.

And on the top, their names, along with two verses of their song. How many times had they sat together, singing to one another while Toshiro etched the words deep? He'd lost count. He would sing, shy and quiet, though Ichigo always said his voice was beautiful.

_When comes the Summer_  
_Full-leaved and strong,_  
_And gay birds gossip_  
_The orchard long,-_  
_Sing hid, sweet honey_  
_That no bee sips;_  
_Sing red, red roses,-  
_ _And my Love's lips._

And Ichigo would answer in his clear, bright tenor.

_But when comes Winter_  
_With hail and storm,_  
_And red fire roaring_  
_And ingle warm,-_  
_Sing first sad going_  
_Of friends that part;_  
_Then sing glad meeting,-  
_ _And my Love's heart._

They would be buried in the orchard, on the little hill where he so often dragged his husband out in the chill night to gaze at the stars.

They would leave this world together, it was inevitable.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

He climbed the little hill that seemed to get bigger and steeper every time, not to mention someone kept moving it farther and farther away from the house. An extra blanket was slung over his shoulder; Toshiro never did bring enough, the cold-blooded man who swore he was not the embodiment of Winter. At least they were meeting during the relative warmth of late morning, Ichigo's early farm chores done, Toshiro's trip to the shrine, which started later in the day now and took longer, finished. A small bottle of plum wine swung in his hand, a little extra warmth to share cuddling under the bare peach trees.

He slowed as the fluffy blanket came into view, and the man resting atop the thick cotton and brocaded pillows. Then he stopped, stood absolutely still while he prayed to nameless gods for strength and stared at the hair, white and thick as always, ruffled by the bitter breeze, the features he had memorized a thousand times on a thousand days, now aged and wrinkled and achingly beautiful.

“Good morning, love. Well, almost good afternoon. Couple of lazy old coots, we are.”

He had to catch his breath before the final few steps, careful steps, quiet steps, old knees shaking a little as he knelt and gently set the bottle down, then laid his tired body down next to the man he loved. With a deep sigh, he let his head rest on the pillows, staring up at the clear sky the color of Toshiro's eyes. He could stare forever.

“Brought the last of Kazui's wine. And I don't want to hear any of that '_that stuff's too sweet_' when you drink twice as much as I do.”

Somehow, he'd always thought it would be in the summer. Could be autumn, even spring, but not winter. Technically, he could say he was right, since the ice had broken the day before, signaling the long-awaited change of the seasons.

Seventy-nine was old. Only a few months ago, the family had gathered for Toshiro's eightieth birthday. Toshiro's grandmother had made it to eighty-seven, the old healer was eighty-five this year. He couldn't imagine it, not when every bit of him constantly ached as if he'd been working in the fields dawn to dusk for a week.

“We got four eggs today. You were right about moving the chickens in next to the workshop for the heat. Of course you were,” his voice trailed off, “you're always right, love.”

Seventy-nine. And he'd been just shy of his thirteenth birthday when his Winter blew in, exotic, new, wounded, enchanting. He remembered himself at age eight, at ten, at twelve, a happy and active kid, barely a care in the world and no idea how incomplete he was. Still didn't when he was fourteen and kissed those shy lips the first time, just there, not ten feet away, with the thousand diamonds hanging from the bare branches all around. It was certainly a major milestone in his life to lose his virginity to his beautiful Winter at sixteen, but the kid he was couldn't have known that Toshiro would be the only person he'd ever want again until the day he died. The kid he had been had, however, had suspected that one day he would be old and gray and still very foolishly in love with the exotic beauty that had fallen into his life like a miracle.

“Natsuo's coming by later.” His elbow protested as he propped himself up and turned onto his hip to see that lovely face. “He wanted me to tell you he's bringing maps. Kinda curious to know where he got them.”

Well, he had Toshiro and all the things that came from loving him. His son, his grandsons and granddaughters, his great-grandchildren. His home, thick with memories of love and loss, but even the loss so precious, each life well-lived and well-loved. Peace. Joy. Toshiro. He got sixty-six perfect years with Toshiro and all he could think about was how much he wished he had the first thirteen years, too.

His fingers would no longer straighten all the way, always slightly bent and always slightly sore, still callused because he refused to be a lazy old man. His fingertips traced the deep lines between white brows, impossible now to smooth out like he used to do when they were young. Always the thinker, the worrier. The other lines he traced were a little more surprising. Not carved like trenches through the still-smooth skin, not quite like his own, but they are there, the evidence of laughter in the crinkled corners of the closed eyes and the curves framing the lips that held his life's breath.

“I'm really pissed at you right now, you know. You were supposed to wait for me. Had to make me look like the idiot you always call me, showing up late. Ah, well, I'll be right behind you, as always. See you soon, love.”

Relaxing, letting all the tension and potential sadness drain out of him, Ichigo laid down on his back again. Quietly, steadily, he released a content breath, drawing in the cold air slowly and more slowly still.

“_Sing first sad going of friends that part; then sing glad meeting, and my Love's heart._”

Scooting as close as possible, he lifted Toshiro's right hand in his left, twining fingers that held no warmth with his, and he gazed lovingly into the fathomless blue-green of Winter's sky.


End file.
